


salt

by myrrhs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble, Ficlet, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, basically everyone from that part of les mis but marius cosette and ferre, btw im mentally ill and have been hospitalized for some of the reasons listed, self harm implied, so ik what im talking about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrrhs/pseuds/myrrhs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there are a lot of beautiful people in the ward</p>
            </blockquote>





	salt

**Author's Note:**

> this fic pairs best with _[epilogue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQwkbRVqqxU)_ by the antlers. my writing is intentionally vague, see if you can figure it out?

there are a lot of beautiful people in the ward, the staff always says. oh, how we pity them, for they could have been somebodies! but they have been reduced to mere shards from the broken window in the boarded up schoolhouse that's set for demolition and oh, how funny that is.

there's the skeleton in the closet, the thin girl with the sparrow's slightness and the fox's wit. she's like fire, but she scarred herself when she tried to burn the place down. once upon a time, she was in love. once upon a time, someone loved her. she resents her lost love for escaping this hell.

then there's the funny one, the laughter in the empty halls. no one hears him tell jokes any more, but he's the worst of them and that's the best joke of all. sometimes he remembers his own jokes and dim lighting, and he laughs himself into oblivion.

there is a man too burdened for his age, who worried and worried and worried until he couldn't think. he once sat alone, but now he helps in the medical office, sometimes. best to be of use to someone.

the boy with wild roses in his hair and their thorns digging into his arms, bleeding dark ink out into a symphony made of a single quavery voice to keep the others from hearing the calls of their own demons, feeling those same claws against their wrists. he used to cry himself to sleep, but he stopped that long ago.

the artist. he draws beautiful portraits and then tears them up with the force of a monsoon pouring rain down, down, down. bang bang, shot to the head, now they're all dead. tears them apart, shoots up till he forgets what he's done. he sits with the poet sometimes, in silence, with unspoken art flowing between them. he braids flowers into the other boy's hair, handling him with as if he were glass, or a masterpiece. perhaps they both are.

there is the one who dies each night and awakes each morning with fervor in his eyes and the voice of an angel. he tried to touch the sky and like icarus, fell into the sea. drowning, he bleeds out because who's gonna do it for him in a place like this?

a man with a hairless head sits in the back. he'd always had the most rotten luck, and when the tests came back, they could only hope for the best. five years later and he's better in some ways and worse in others. the treatment was too much and now his only drug is the nurse wannabe. how funny his luck truly is.

a giant of a man barely comes out of his room. they haven't been able to get a word out of him since the day he came, and when they pushed him too hard he pushed back. he ended up in that horrible darkness solitary for too long, far too long. he's much more polite now, in his own way, like an elephant holding a teacup.

there's a girl here too, nearly as wild as the skeleton and far more of a warrior. she wears her battle scars proudly, more of a raven than a darting sparrow, and proves it frequently to the dismay of the staff. she, too, needs no medicine but for the medic. she remembers riding the rails at night, remembers the dark and then the light. and then the nothing. 

and there is a craftsman, who helps do the repairs and gets rid of the sharp corners. he's brushing spiderwebs from the ceiling of his mind and he locks the windows each night, though he longs to jump.

they don't talk about the others. they don't exist.

the schoolhouse collapses.


End file.
